Mother's Pride Father's Legacy
by Lord Raine
Summary: From the ashes of forgotten nobility rises a single child destined to change the world. A conspiracy is hatched, truths are unveiled, and plans are drawn for war both violent and political. For love, for the light, and for the death of the Dark Lord.


Mother's Pride, Father's Legacy

By Lord Raine

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, I own nothing. All characters and places are owned by J.K. Rowling, not me. I could probably claim to own some bit of this, but it's such a tiny pointless bit that it's not even remotely worth it.

* * *

Chapter One: Blood of the Mother

The rain was beating a staccato rhythm against the walls of a resolute stone castle in the wee hours of the morning. The darkness was aided and abetted by a vicious storm that was tearing across the Scottish highlands, but even so, the castle stood, it's foreboding and oddly majestic turrets standing sentinel over a mirror black lake and a deep, ancient forest.

High up on one of the castle's many towers, a warm yellow light cut a comforting square out of the cold and wet night. Inside, an aged man dressed in lime green robes dotted with pink and orange stars was sitting at his desk, his long white beard tucked casually into his sash. A fiery, exotic bird was perched next to him, apparently fast asleep.

An ancient, moldy patchwork hat regarded him from a shelf, a rip near its brim pursed in thoughtful deliberation. "Having trouble, Albus?"

Dumbledore sighed, picking up a clear crystal goblet and sipping its contents, tiny multicolored motes of ensorcelled light swirling in the wine's depths. He regarded the tattered and mellowed parchments and documents spread out before him, consuming the entirety of his desk and then some.

"You could say that, Ambrose."

"The boy, I presume?"

The old wizard nodded, his age showing around his eyes. "You know me too well."

"It wasn't _that_ hard to figure out. You _are_ looking at the genealogies of the Evans and Potter lines, after all. Still trying to figure out what to do with him, hm?"

Dumbledore regarded clock, and winced at the unmerciful march of hours. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. "Yes, for the most part. The boy needs protection, and blood wards are the best option. Especially if Lily and James did what I think they did to save him."

"But?"

"But the problem is how to go about it. The only living blood relatives the boy has left are Lily's sister, Petunia, and her son."

The fabric of the hat shifted, almost as though it were cocking an eyebrow.

"Met them before, have we?"

"Petunia, yes. I met her once long, long ago, back when Lily first received her letter. She was so eager then, hoping to become a witch herself just like her older sister. I had to break the news to her that she did not have the gift herself. It left her heartbroken, and she resented Lily deeply for it. I was hoping she had gotten over it, but if what Minerva reported is even a quarter right, she has not. Not one bit."

"_Jealousy and hate are the rot of the soul, burning dark like a hellfire coal."_ the hat chanted sagely.

"Yes, yes. I know. But knowing it is a bad choice doesn't change anything. The entire Potter line save Harry himself is gone, either to old age or the war, and Petunia is the last Evans by blood."

The office was silent, the portraits either asleep or out visiting others at such a late hour. Dumbledore sat in contemplation, absorbed in the charts and lists. The hat brooded for a moment, before the brim split once again.

"Evans. . . why does that name ring a bell?"

Dumbledore perked up slightly, watching the hat but not saying anything.

"Evans, Evans. . . her great great grandfather wouldn't have been Billius Evans, would it?"

Dumbledore looked down, shuffling through the pages of a large leather-bound ledger. "Hmm. Yes, yes it was. Billius Evans, right here."

"Husband of Esmeralda Payne?"

Dumbledore slid his glasses back on, and peered down at the moldy scrawl. "Yes. Esmeralda Payne is here too. Married to Billius Evans, eldest of three siblings. Bethany Payne and Markus Payne."

The corners of the rip perked up ever so slightly. "Albus~" it hummed in a singsong voice. "I know something _you_ don't know~"

Dumbledore regarded the hat exasperatedly over his spectacles. "I am sure you know a considerable number of things I do not, Ambrose. One of the few blessed side-effects of age. Care to share what this particular one is?"

The rip curved upwards. "Certainly. You remember what Tom was trying to do, yes?"

Dumbledore blinked. "He was trying to do a great number of things, Ambrose."

The hat snorted. "Yes, but only one of them had anything to do with his own personal ancestry."

Recognition dawned in the ancient wizard's eyes. "His claim as Heir of Slytherin?"

The tip of the hat nodded. "Yes. He claimed to be the True Heir of Slytherin on his mother's side, due to his Gaunt ancestry. Because the Gaunts were the last known living bloodline of Slytherin, it did not matter that they were an offshoot of a secondary subfamily of the main families. Since they were the only line left, that meant full inheritance should go to the firstborn Gaunt son."

Dumbledore regarded the Sorting Hat carefully. "Ambrose, while that is indeed interesting, it is sadly neither relevant nor something unknown to me."

"Oh?" The hat said, practically dripping smugness. "Well then, how about this, then? Look for a family on your charts named Steldon."

Dumbledore blinked, then began shuffling through his parchments. Fingering a particularly weathered one, he drew it out and unrolled it across his desk. With a flick of his wand, the inks blurred and ran together, reforming into a new family tree, the name 'Steldon' proudly emblazoned at the top in sprawling gothic lettering. Next to it, a small red 'x' was drawn, indicating it as a family that no longer existed.

"Fine. Now what?"

"See how the line is listed as being extinct? Look at the last generation, bottom far left."

Running a finger across the traced ink lines, Dumbledore's eyes widened. Esmeralda Steldon, Bethany Steldon, and Markus Steldon were proudly emblazoned in careful, neat script.

"The odds of that . ." Dumbledore breathed. "No. They changed their name, didn't they?"

"Oh, it gets better. Follow Steldon up, see where it goes."

Dumbledore tapped the scroll again, and ink whorled around, blurring and reforming itself into a much larger tree displaying only family names. Started at the dead-end line of Steldon, Dumbledore traced back up across families and subfamilies, the inks following his progress as he went. A growing trepidation grew within him as he began to recognize some of the names. Then he froze.

A large medieval crest stood at the pinnacle of the tree. Crowned with a shining helm and framed with sprawling stylized ivy, a shining silver serpent stood coiled against a background of solid, emerald green.

Dumbledore's heart skipped a beat.

Slowly, the ancient wizard looked up at the hat. "How?" he asked simply.

The curve of the hat slid upwards even further. "I'm not good for much, but my memory is sharper than any blade. I remember each and every student that passes under my brim, and unlike the official records in the Ministry archives, I am not subject to the petty whim of pureblood supremacy and petty politics. True, the minds of eleven and twelve year old witches and wizards hold little information of true import, but one of the things they _do_ know is family. As to the why, it's the same why it always is. A disgraced family line, issues with blood purity, and the terrible misfortune to produce nothing but Squib children for generations."

Dumbledore stared at the parchment, a feeling of excitement welling up within him. "If this is true, then not just the blood wards, but . . oh, Harry. Harry, Harry, my boy." The flamboyant wizard grinned, a feeling of triumph welling up within him. "If we could get him to claim this . . "

"Claim it?" The hat said, sounding interested. "What do you mean? I thought it would merely make the issue of blood wards easier to manage."

"The old laws." Dumbledore said absently, his excitement growing. He was leafing through a ledger he had conjured from his desk. "If I can invoke the old laws, then everything, _everything_ just became a whole lot easier. Easier and more difficult. But isn't that the way?"

"But what good would that do?" a slow, sarcastic voice drawled from the wall. Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat looked up to see a previously missing portrait sitting disdainfully in his black leather chair.

"Back already, Phineas?" Dumbledore queried, smiling.

"No thanks to your request to spread the news of what happened, yes." the Black retorted. Dumbledore smiled to himself. It would seem Phineas was in a fine mood indeed.

"How do you mean?" the wizard asked the portrait. Phineas settled back into his chair, and narrowed his eyes.

"I mean exactly what I said. How does it matter? Those are the _old_ laws. They are called that for a reason. They aren't followed anymore. You'd have as much luck convincing a hen to lay rocks as you would getting anyone on the Wizengamot to agree with it."

Dumbledore smiled. "Actually, I believe Aberforth once managed to-"

"NO. Stop." Phineas shouted, covering his ears. "I don't want to hear it. Not after the story about the badger and the whiskey."

"Yes, perhaps that is a story for another time." Dumbledore said, his eyes smiling even as the hat muttered to itself about an insult to the honor of all Hufflepuffs everywhere. "But the old laws actually do apply here."

"I'm sorry, Albus," the hat said, speaking a little louder than was necessary. "But I know little of the hodgepodge of modern wizarding laws. Mostly because the same could be said of little boys and girls. What, exactly, are the old laws?"

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling madly. "The Confederation of Warlocks ruled in 1895 that precedent will be given to older preexisting laws over newer laws when deemed necessary by the Chief Warlock, and that ruling has yet to be overturned or overwritten. Probably because it allows a convenient fallback to the older and more biased ways when the pureblood families held even more power than they do now. Regardless of how fair the law may or may not be, though, it certainly plays to our advantage now. The 'old laws' as Phineas put them, will indeed be adhered to and respected, provided I say that they should be."

"It's a pity, though." The wizard murmured, fingering the parchment in front of him. "It would have been so much more convenient if it had been Gryffindor."

Phineas snorted to himself. "Typical. It's always 'Gryffindor this' and 'Gryffindor that.' Godric wasn't exactly a saint, you know."

"Actually," the Sorting Hat interjected, "as far as Salazar is concerned, Godric might as well have-"

"Oh shut it!" Phineas snapped. "I'm not interested in your lectures. You don't know the whole story anyway. You aren't them, just their taste in students. I've enough interactions with annoying rabble to last me a month anyway. Goodnight, Albus. And don't bother me again with pointless errands your bird could do just as easily."

The picture of the swarthy man froze up, becoming still and lifeless. Dumbledore sighed once again, exasperated at the churlish behavior of the former headmaster.

"Oh don't worry, Albus." the hat snorted. "He's just feeling prissy because he had to do some real work for a change. He'll be back to his normal intolerable self in a few days after he's gotten all the sulk out of his system. Besides, I don't know what you're complaining about, to be honest."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow while refilling his goblet. "What do you mean? Had Harry been able to claim descent from Godric, it would have made him almost untouchable politically."

The the Sorting hat straightened it's cone, seeming to stretch a bit on its shelf. "I mean I'm wondering why you're complaining about him not being able to claim that. I know there are others living who could contest it, as the Potters are not the only line, but assuming you are planning what I think you're planning, that doesn't mean he couldn't still claim it."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. "That's never been done, to my recollection."

"Oh, it has." The hat said flippantly. "It was done quite a lot back in the old days before the modern ministry was founded. There isn't much political precedent for it in modern times, but powerful heirs that stemmed from two large clans or families would frequently claim both heritages in the old days as a political move. The rules haven't changed, Albus. Just the size of the balls on the heirs."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and he could have sworn the frozen picture on the wall snickered. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

The hat coughed slightly. "Albus, I don't really know exactly what it is you are planning, though I can probably guess it has a lot more to do with heirs and a lot less to do with the blood ward loopholes we started with. But I do think it bears mentioning that I am no expert on law, and that ultimately I can only serve an advisory role, as is my function. The ultimate decision is yours. If you want to try and go through the Potter lineage-"

"No. No, this is the right of it." Dumbledore said, sitting up a bit straighter. "From Evans to Payne to Steldon. There, I believe, lies the answer to our problems. Potter can come later, if necessary. And it very may well be, all things considered."

He rummaged through the piles of documents on his desk, and extracted a small leather parcel bound in green silk ribbons. Checking the label carefully to make sure it was the correct one, he turned to the shimmering phoenix roosting at his side.

"Fawkes? Were you listening?"

The shining bird opened one eye to a slit, and nodded.

"Good. I need you to take this" he said, placing the package onto the stool next to him. He then grabbed a scrap of blank parchment, scribbled out a brief message, signed it, and slipped it under the ribbon fastenings. "And this, to Olivander. And make sure that no one else is about when you deliver it. I doubt there will be this early, but as he keeps his shop open at all hours, I would rather be safe now than regret it later."

Fawkes stretched his wings and gave a few experimental flaps before hopping off his perch. Grabbing the parcel, he gave off a faint keening cry and vanished in a puff of golden fire.

Dumbledore sighed, and with a flick of his wand, the documents on his desk swirled together and shelved themselves, and a single map flew out, unrolling itself on his desk. Finishing off the contents of his goblet, he leaned back, gazing at the ancient survey map for Hogwarts and the surrounding holdings with a smile. "I'm sorry, Harry. I can't do anything for you now. But I promise I won't leave you there. Just hold on for ten years, and you won't have to worry about your uncle and aunt ever again. I swear it."

* * *

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore, his face swimming into view.

Harry blinked groggily, then sat bolt upright. "Sir! Professor! It was Quirrell! And the Stone! He's got it! Quick, we need to-"

"Calm yourself, dear boy. Your efforts and priorities are quite admirable, but I'm afraid you are a bit behind the times. Professor Quirrell no longer has the Stone."

"Then who does? Sir, we need to-"

"Harry, please relax, or Madame Pomfrey will have me thrown out."

After catching his breath, Harry slipped his glasses back on and looked around. He realized he must be in the hospital wing. He was tucked into a clean white linen bed with soft sheets. A stream of warm morning sunlight streamed in from the windows, highlighting what appeared to be half of an entire candy shop and then some.

Noticing Harry's eyes, Dumbledore smiled. "Tokens from your friends and admirers, Harry. What happened down in the dungeons between you, Professor Quirrell, and the Stone is a complete secret. So naturally, the whole school knows. I believe several older students are responsible for nearly cleaning out Honeydukes, and Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. Doubtless they felt it would amuse you, but Madame Pomfrey felt it would be . . unhygienic."

Harry blinked at the unfamiliar reference to the wizarding sweet shop, but then looked out the window to the rising sun. "How long have I been in here?"

"Three days and some odd hours, give or take a bit. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will doubtless be most relieved that you have come round. They have been extremely worried. Madame Pomfrey had to triple hex the door to keep them from barging in. It would appear that Miss Granger is quite apt at picking magical locks when she sets her mind to it." Dumbledore seem oddly pleased at this, though Harry had no idea why.

"But, sir. The Stone?"

"I see that you are not one to be distracted. An admirable talent, though also an admittedly vexing one. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take the Stone from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, though I must say I think you were doing a wonderful job on your own, all things considered. I was hardly needed at all."

"So it _was_ you."

"Yes. I feared I might be too late, though."

"You very nearly were. I couldn't have held him off the stone much longer."

"Not the stone, my boy, _you._ The effort involved in what you did to Quirrell nearly killed you. For a few terrible moments, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been returned to its rightful owners."

"Your friend? Nicolas Flamel?"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding delighted. "You _did_ do the thing properly, didn't you? Yes, it has been returned to him. However, he and I have had a long talk, and he has decided that it really ought to be destroyed. It is too powerful a thing, Harry. Unending life and unending wealth, the two things that most humans would choose above all others. And, unfortunately, the two things most likely to bring one to ruins. We have an unfortunate knack for desiring the things that are most likely to destroy us."

"So. . . it is going to be destroyed? But they will die, won't they? Flamel and his wife?"

"Yes, Harry. They will set their own affairs in order, and a few other things besides. Then Nicolas will dispose of the stone and then yes, they will die. But it is not so bad a thing, Harry. I'm sure it seems unbelievable that someone might desire death, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it is really more like going to bed after a very, _very_ long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed a little and smiled at the ceiling.

"Sir, there are some things I'd like to know the truth about, if you can tell me."

"Ah, the truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is at once both a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with considerable caution. However, I am willing to tell you the truth, insofar as I am able. There may be some questions I cannot answer, but I can promise you I will not lie. Fire away, Harry."

"Well. . . Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But. . . why would he want to kill me in the first place?"

Dumbledore looked at Harry, his gaze seeming to sharpen, and Harry blinked in surprise. He suddenly became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was lying in the presence of one of the most powerful wizards in the world.

"Harry. . . as I said, the truth can be a terrible thing. And this is a terrible truth. Do you truly want to know it?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, but resolve hardened in his eyes, and he nodded.

"Very well." Dumbledore said, standing up. With a gesture, the locks on the door slid home, and the translucent film of a silencing spell spread across the frame. Pointing his wand up at the ceiling, a fat white spark jumped up and popped. With a soft crack and a faint flicker of light, a bundle of cloth appeared on the bedside table, just clear of being smothered by a miniature avalanche of sweets.

"Harry, this is Ambrose. Ambrose, Harry. I believe the two of you have met before."

The hat straightened up, it's slit smiling as it curved downwards in a mock bow. Harry's eyes widened. "It's you!"

"_Yes, it is I, the sorter supreme, sifting students about, the crème of the crème!"_

"He's been working on that all morning, you know."

"I have not!" the Hat snorted, rounding on Dumbledore. The hat glowered at the elderly wizard, who merely hummed quietly to himself. Harry looked back and forth between the two, thoroughly confused.

"Yes, perhaps not. But that is not what is important at the moment." Dumbledore said, focusing his attention on Harry. "Harry wants to know the truth, and having taken everything into consideration, I think we owe him an explanation."

"Oh-ho. So he's ready for an explanation, is he? You sure you don't want to wait a few more years, Albus? He might not be ready for that kind of thing just yet."

"No." Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "He is ready now. He deserves to know the truth, and telling him everything will probably be less stressful for him than just keeping him in the dark. In fact, that is part of the reason I called you here. I was hoping you could help me a bit on that end."

The hat stiffened slightly, then nodded once in understanding before relaxing. Dumbledore moved his chair a bit closer to the bed, and folded his hands.

"The story, Harry, begins a long time ago, before you were born. There was a prophecy, you see. . . "

* * *

Harry stared at the two of them, shocked to his core. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Dumbledore looked on sadly, and the hat remained silent.

"So. . . so that's why, then. That's why Quirrell couldn't touch me. Because he was. . because my mum. . . and my scar . . . that's why he was destroyed that night?" His voice shook slightly, and his eyes swam with unshed tears.

"We aren't sure, Harry. But that is what we believe. The magic of the Noble Sacrifice gave you a power of pure love. A power stronger than any at Tom's disposal. Lily and James died to protect you, and they both left their mark on you because of it, a High and Most Ancient Magic. That is why Quirrell, who had let Voldemort into his heart and soul, could not bare to touch you."

"B-but surely there were other children born at the time! Why did he choose me? Why did it have to be me my mum and my dad!" Tears were streaming down Harry's face. Dumbledore looked on sadly, and with a flick of his wrist, he conjured a silver box of tissues.

"There were other children who fit the criteria, yes. A number of children were born at the end of July, and a great many brave witches and wizards who had families had defied Voldemort numerous times. But out of all of them, he chose you as the biggest threat. Out of all of them, he decided that you, Harry, were the biggest danger to him. Had he been aware of the rest of the verse, that he would 'mark you as his equal,' then he might perhaps have been a bit more cautious in how he went about it. He was not aware that the act of choosing you, of singling you out, might somehow bestow you with a strength you did not have before."

"But. . . why? What was so threatening about me?"

"I am sorry, Harry. I have guesses, theories. But each is more improbable than the last. I do not know what drove Tom to seek out you and your parents. Only that he must have seen something in you that he took as being a greater threat than all the rest. Perhaps it is because of your magical ancestry. Maybe it was because he saw something of himself in you. What the truth of it is, I cannot say."

They sat in silence for several long minutes, Harry sniffling quietly to himself. Dumbledore conjured a second box of tissues, and leaned back in his chair, acutely aware of just how young the boy in front of him was. _'Maybe Ambrose was right. Maybe I __**should**__ have waited another year before telling him. Of course, I have no idea how I would have gotten him through all of what is to come without him knowing, but still.'_

Harry sat in silence, thinking about what he had just been told. Harry licked his lips, and spoke again.

"S-sir." Harry mumbled. Dumbledore looked up from his musings. "I. . I have another question."

"What is it, Harry?"

Harry straightened up, and rubbed his eyes. "It's just that, well. The Sorting Hat said I would do well in Slytherin. It put me in Gryffindor because I asked for it to."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise, and glanced at the hat. "You never told me anything about that, Ambrose."

"Didn't I?" the hat asked, positively dripping insincerity. "It must have slipped my mind."

Dumbledore smiled mischievously, catching on to the hat's intent. "No doubt much like the time it slipped my mind that my enchanted red robes were already in the wash when I put you in for a cleaning."

"THAT WAS NOT FUNNY, ALBUS. Merlin's blood, I was _PINK._ For a _WEEK._ No House has that as their color, and for bloody good reason!" Harry's mouth twitched into a small smile, and could have sworn he heard laughter coming from the unoccupied green picture frame with a black leather chair hanging on the wall.

"Yes, well, we did manage to sort that all out eventually, now didn't we? But that's beside the point. Harry, what House you _might_ have been in means little. It is the House you are in _now_ that matters."

Harry fidgeted slightly, and seemed dissatisfied with the answer, but didn't press the issue. He frowned. "So. . . the prophecy. . . that's why, then? Why I'm so different? Why I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, ad not just Harry Potter?"

Dumbledore looked at him, the lines of age showing around his eyes. "Yes, Harry. That is why."

"So. . . it is my fate, then? Either Voldemort kills me or I . . kill him?"

"Yes" said the hat. "No" said Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked at the hat, and frowned. "No, Harry, it is not your fate."

"But it might as well be." the hat interjected.

"Ambrose!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "Stop confusing things further!"

"Wait, what do you mean, sir?"

Dumbledore sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Prophecies are . . . queer things, Harry. Not all of them come to pass. Sometimes, a prophecy will only come true if you actively try to make it come true. Other times, a prophecy will only come true if you go out of your way to avoid making it happen. On the whole, a lot more stock is put in prophecies than there should be. A great many people put . . . far, far too much faith in them. Far more than one should."

"So. . then I don't have to kill Voldemort?"

"Unfortunately, yes, you do" the hat said, taking over from Dumbledore. "Tom believes in prophecy. He is one of those 'great many people' Albus mentioned. Even if the prophecy isn't the kind that is set in stone, and I very much doubt that it is, it hardly matters. He believes it to be true, which means he will keep coming after you over and over again until one of you is dead. The prophecy is self-fulfilling. As long as Tom allows it to guide his actions, its verdict _will_ come to pass. Neither of you will live in peace until the other is dead. Not because there's anything special about the prophecy itself. Just because Tom won't stop trying to kill you."

Harry blinked, nodding slowly. Thinking about all of this was giving him a headache, but he thought he understood the meaning.

"Besides," the hat went on "being told that you are being hunted by a dark wizard is pretty bad, but on the other hand, it is _also_ your destiny to save the world from a Dark Lord. That's a pretty good destiny to have, as far as destinies go. I've been on your head; you can't hide it from me. You're just like any other boy your age, growing up with fantasies of being a knight in shining armor vanquishing evil. Even more so than usual, actually, in your case. It's probably the Gryffindor in you. Well, guess what? Now you get to live it! You get to save everyone, and be a hero. A real one. And there aren't too many of them about."

Harry smiled slightly at the hat's upbeat attitude. "Yeah, but that's only if I win, though."

"You will." the hat said simply. "Very likely, at any rate. I was on Tom's head. I was on yours too. Between the two of you, you are most definitely the better. You've got just as much talent, probably more so, and more importantly, you have a good heart. Tom could make servants out of those around him. You, on the other hand, make friends out of them. It's no contest. There's no way you can lose. Not unless you do something stupid, like transfigure yourself into a rabbit. Or neglect your veggies. Or not apply yourself like a good student should."

Harry laughed, and Dumbledore smiled. Stretching of the truth aside, he was quietly thankful for the hat's ability to steer and guide conversations and moods. He imagined that having seen a person's innermost thoughts and personality likely helped quite a bit.

Harry paused, and looked at the hat. "Why do you and Professor Dumbledore keep calling Voldemort Tom?"

"Because that is his real name." the hat retorted, snorting slightly. "Voldemort is not his true name. It is a title. A made-up name. We may have some odd customs in the magical world from your muggle perspective, boy, but surely you don't think any mother that was even half-sane would name her bouncing baby boy Voldemort?"

"Tom always had something of an ego when he was in school, Harry." Dumbledore explained, the hat muttering about understatements in the background. "It was a nickname he gave himself while he was at school here, which was used between himself and his closest friends."

Harry started. "Volde-I mean Tom, went here? To Hogwarts?"

"Yes, of course he did. And he had an enormous ego. And that is a lesson that _you_" he said, rounding on a startled Harry "should take to heart. Tom was a brilliant student at school, but he let it go to his head. He could have been a truly great wizard, but he let his power and his talents rule his heart, instead of his heart ruling them. Because of that, he fell into darkness, and became the monster that you saw not three days ago. There is a strong lesson to be learned from the path he took. It should serve as a warning to others, particularly you."

Harry mulled this over for a moment, adjusting the bandages on his arm. He looked at Dumbledore critically. "Is it true what you said, that it was you who left me with the Dursleys? Because of the blood wards, and my scar? And that I don't have to go back?"

"Yes Harry. It is true. You had to stay at the Dursleys for your own protection. Blood wards that I erected keep you hidden and safe from outside attack as long as you visit there, the home of your last living relatives. Fortunately, though, I believe I have found a way around that. A way to erect blood wards elsewhere to protect you, so you don't ever have to go back again unless you want to."

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Harry. . . I did what I thought was best, to protect you from Tom's servants after your parents died. But even so, I cannot help but regret leaving you with your aunt and uncle. Can you forgive an old man for putting you through that?"

Harry's face beamed, and he lunged for the old wizard, pulling him into a hug. Dumbledore grinned, and the boy laughed into his beard.

The trio sat in silence for several moments, enjoying the birdsong outside the window and the exotic scents wafting up from the colorful mountain of candies. The peace was short-lived, however. A faint clicking sound came from Dumbledore's pocket, and he fished out a silver pocket watch on a bronze chain. Popping it open, he examined the dials for a moment before stowing it back into his robes.

"Harry, while there is still much to talk about, I believe our conversation will have to be put on hold for now. I have a terribly important meeting that I cannot be too late in attending, and your friends are nearly to the point of assaulting the Hospital Wing to meet you. Harry, what we have just discussed does not leave this room. While the most of the knowledge of the prophecy is not too terribly dangerous, the fact that the reason he fell was due to a 'power he knows not,' along with the fact that he has 'marked you as an equal,' are both terribly important things that should not fall into the wrong hands. There are many who would misuse it for their own ends, and secrets have a terrible habit of spreading once you take someone into your confidence. As such, it is best that the whole prophecy be kept a secret for as long as possible. No matter how much you might wish to tell others, you must resist the temptation to do so. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone. Even Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger must be kept in the dark."

Harry nodded as Dumbledore stood up, sweeping the Sorting Hat up with him and making to leave. "Wait, sir. Earlier, before, you mentioned that you had found a way around my having to go back to the Dursleys. You said they were my last living relatives, but that there was another way." Harry's mind was whirling, remembering the night in front of the mirror and the ghosts wandering the halls of Hogwarts. "What exactly is that other way?"

A smile split Dumbledore's face, his whiskers twitching, and Harry could have sworn he saw a glint of triumph in the old man's eyes. "You'll see soon enough, Harry. You'll see. But enough questions. Now is the time for rest. Rest, and enjoy the company of your friends. And perhaps make a start on these sweets."

The old man extricated a small paper pouch from the candy pile, and held it up triumphantly. "Aha! Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one, and since them I'm afraid I've rather lost my taste for them. If you don't mind, Harry?"

The boy shook his head, and Dumbledore tore the corner of the bag open. "But, that being said, I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

He smiled, and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth, then choked immediately to the laughter of the Sorting Hat.

"Alas! Ear Wax!"

* * *

AN: I edited some things, added some things, and removed some things to help smooth the story along and build the suspense. I also ran through it with a fine-toothed comb for spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors. I think I caught most of them. I don't know if updating the chapter will cause all those who Favorited it to have it ping, but if it does, then that's what the ping was. Sorry, but it's just an edit, not an update (yet, anyway).

Cheers


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